Is its beauty painted brightly on its wings as it floats across the garden? Or is it the caterpillar that inches along and spins itself into its own darkness? Living for days in its own vulnerability. Fighting with its demons and fears within the shadows of the silk. Letting it out, letting it become itself. The butterfly is the caterpillar. What are you writing? Is it coming from inside the cocoon of the creative or are you just trying to paint on the wings?
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